


only the sun has come this close, only the sun

by natehsewell



Category: The Wayhaven Chronicles (Interactive Fiction)
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Smut, Light Bondage, Light Dom/sub, Nate's got soft dom energy, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Smut, Vaginal Fingering, because.. yknow... nate, sort of??? ig????, this is like ALL feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-07
Updated: 2020-12-07
Packaged: 2021-03-10 04:20:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,042
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27928168
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/natehsewell/pseuds/natehsewell
Summary: “Are you sure?” Nate murmurs, taking her left wrist in hand, his thumb settling on her leaping pulse point. Winona wonders, briefly, what little betrayals her body is giving off. The skip of her heart, banging like a bird in her chest. The goosebumps that trail up her arm at the touch of his hand. The shaking exhales, shallow enough that her head spins from it—or maybe it’s just him, all warm skin and big brown eyes, taking up her every sense.“Yes,” she rasps, and a small, pleased smile curls up his lips."Or: Nate, ribbons, and wanting.
Relationships: Female Detective/Nathaniel "Nate" Sewell
Comments: 5
Kudos: 59





	only the sun has come this close, only the sun

**Author's Note:**

> i literally have no excuse for this except for how "delicious, isn't it?" has been living in my head rent free since the demo dropped. nate sewell i have feelings for u. please call me back.

“Are you sure?” Nate murmurs, taking her left wrist in hand, his thumb settling on her leaping pulse point. Winona wonders, briefly, what little betrayals her body is giving off. The skip of her heart, banging like a bird in her chest. The goosebumps that trail up her arm at the touch of his hand. The shaking exhales, shallow enough that her head spins from it—or maybe it’s just him, all warm skin and big brown eyes, taking up her every sense. 

“Yes,” she rasps, and a small, pleased smile curls up his lips.

His eyes don’t waver from hers, like he’s watching for any sign of unease. “And you’ll tell me if at any point you’re uncomfortable, or want to stop?” He takes her other wrist in hand, drawing them together in front of her. His hands, so much bigger, engulf hers as he holds them, his thumb dragging lightly over the top, and she sighs at the gentle motion. 

Soft, even now. Especially now, and Nate waits patiently for her answer.

Winona nods, her voice hitched with a rasp, “yeah, I promise,” and he draws both her hands to his mouth, keeping eye contact as he presses two lingering kisses to her knuckles. Soft. Safe. 

He’s lovely, she thinks, as he puts her wrists to her sides. A careful, but solid motion; the unspoken command to _stay_ in the way he lingers a second longer than necessary. 

Only the bedside lamps are on, bathing him and the entire room in golden, shaded light, just enough shadows left behind to sink into. Behind her is the bed, and in front of her is Nate, and the rest she can admire later, all her focus taken as he reaches up slowly (always slowly, carefully, with a tenderness that leaves her breathless) to begin unbuttoning her shirt.

His shirt, actually, and when he takes it in hand she swears she can see his smile widen. A soft white button down, twice as long on her as it is on him, knotted at the wide flair of her waist to compensate. He hasn’t complained about her stealing his clothes yet, and it’s become strangely comforting. She likes the sit of it on her skin, like carrying something of his keeps him near, even when he isn’t around. 

But now she wants it _off_. 

He takes his time, all sure, unshaking motions as she shifts on her feet, antsy for him to move, to just get rid of the damn thing. One button. Two. Three. He parts the top of it gently with a curl of his wrist, and she shivers as his fingers brush the newly exposed skin.

Impatient, she takes the hem of his shirt in her hands, halfway through a light jerking motion upward when he captures her wrists again. 

“No,” Nate says, smiling indulgently as he puts them to the same place as before, keeping his grip light but firm. A gentle, undeniable order.

She bristles, irritation and want in equal measure, but Nate remains still, unbothered. 

He enjoys this, watching her flush and flare under his hands, threads pulled until she unravels like a tapestry. His palms move up her arms, over the barrier of her sleeves, one resting on the low of her jaw. Big enough to span the side of her head, and she presses into it, leaning her head back into the cradling gesture.

He keeps his other gripping her arm, sweet and unrelenting and she knows, _no, she isn’t allowed to touch him._ As she opens her mouth to protest, his thumb catches on her bottom lip, pulling it down lightly. 

Of course, of course she wraps her lips around the appendage, running her tongue over the pad of his finger and watching his composure slip. It’s in his sharp inhale, cut off at the halfway mark, the slight narrow of his eyes, all dark and heady with desire. Victory curves in her like a question mark, and then he slides his thumb further in, against her tongue, against her teeth. A soft mimicry of baser acts, and her eyes flutter.

_Fuck._

She watches him watch her mouth, the way she rolls her lips together and _sucks_ around his thumb, and after a shaky breath he says, “there’s time for that later.”

He pulls his thumb away, breaking the seal of her mouth with a slick sound, taking a moment to smear her lips wet before he drops it, and she jerks in place. “But for now, I think, I would have you listen to me. Stay still, my love.” He steps closer, close enough that she has to crane her head back to keep her eyes on him, losing sight of where his hands go; feeling the catch of her shirt in his fingers.

He’s a slow burn in her veins, and when he returns to his previous task of undressing her she feels every nerve fire off at once, every inch of her keenly aware of every inch of him.

Every accidental brush of his fingers against her. The slight pull of the fabric. The blackness of his eyes, pupils blown wide. When he unties the knot, the rest of the shirt falls loose, open, revealing the pretty black lace of her bra.

Nate swallows hard, flicking his gaze to hers as a smile razoring on the edge of a smirk takes his lips again. One palm lays flat on her stomach, trailing upwards, to the side, under the curve of her breast, arching up as she does. 

Winona can’t bite off her sigh, her shuddering breath, and the ache to touch him takes her while he pushes the shirt off her shoulders ( _slow_ again, so the fabric caresses her skin all the way down and her spine arches as his touch flutters down her back.)

“Winona, darling. Look at me.” Nate says and her eyes snap open, only then realizing that she’d shut them at all.

A haziness takes him, and Winona wonders if he knows how pretty he is, lips parted and shining when he swipes his tongue across them. 

Not so unbothered, then. 

Swaying in place, she works her jaw, quirking her brows with a flimsy braveness as heat takes her cheeks, his cheeks. “How do you want me?” She asks, rough and low, and he settles his grip around her waist.

“That’s a very good question.” _Everywhere, everywhere, I want you everywhere._

He pushes her ever so gently toward that broad, four-poster bed with the duvet like a cloud, and when her knees brush the edge of it she sits without needing to be told. 

A pleased hum reverbs in his chest, and it’s all she can do to try and breathe as Nate takes to his knees in front of her, and _god—_ Nate Sewell on his knees, all long lines and subtle strength and loveliness, fingers catching on the belt loop of her pants.

Winona shifts in place, antsy, drawing a chuckle from him. “How do I want you?” He purrs, pondering the question as he flicks open the button of her trousers, and god— she _wants_ . Her hands jump at her sides, itching to _get a move on_ , to curl into his hair and pull off the rest of his clothes, and he pauses, waiting for her to move. To break.

The duvet gives easily in her grasp instead, and Nate gives a soft, approving sound, the kind that sings in her blood, settles hotly in her. Dragging the zipper loose, he tugs her free of her pants, and she arches her hips from the bed to help.

“I want you…” With every new inch of exposed skin, he charts a path with fingers and lips that leaves her gasping. “Here. And when you are here, I want you to think of nothing but me, nothing but us.” His head bows over her thigh, slanting his mouth to her knee, and she can’t look away, can’t breathe. One jerk and her pants are gone and he’s looking at her, languid and starving all at once. 

“I want you on the verge of madness. Shaking with want.” _God._ She can’t breathe, and it’s her hunger in his eyes, his in hers, a mirror image. Wanting and wanted. “Keep your eyes on me.”

He pulls her thigh to his shoulder, trailing wet, open mouthed kisses back up her skin, almost, _almost._ It builds, that madness, that wanting, and her head rolls back, her eyes slide shut, her fingers grasping at his hair, and—

Nate stands then, a smiling denial, and she snaps up brutally.

“What are you doing?” She wants to be commanding, but her voice breaks in a whine as he looms above her, so indulgent and teasing and beautiful. 

He touches her cheek, and she seesaws between indignance and love. 

“Whatever shall I do with you?” He hums, massaging her scalp, holding lightly. A part of her wants him to tighten his grip, to tug her back, but he simply holds. Waits. Watches.

She swallows hard. “Hopefully more than what you’re doing right now.” 

A laugh tears out of him, the kind that settles over her like a blanket, and she can’t help grinning, flushed as she is.

“Oh, my darling… don’t worry. I intend to do that, and much more.” He says, almost lazily taking her face between both palms now, and the look of him makes her shiver, wipes the grin from her face. One of his rings digs into her cheek, a kiss in its own right.

Finally, Nate says: “But perhaps you need some assistance following instructions,” and releases her. 

Her head drops forward, as if to chase the receding touch. “Don’t move, please.” He commands—always softly, always warm with love—and steps away from her, taking a few quick steps to retrieve something from the chest of drawers. 

Winona squirms in place, and only when she sees the delicate, silk ribbon between his long fingers does she realize what he’s doing.

They’d discussed it weeks ago. 

Or, rather, there had been a rather embarrassing moment during training, when he’d pinned her wrists above her head and she’d moaned, arching under him. _Something_ had unfurled in her, heavy with desire, and he had jerked away with a worried expression. “Did I hurt you?” tumbling fast from his mouth as she’d slumped flat to the mat, throbbing with realization.

“No! No, not at all.” She had gasped, eyes on him, eyes on his hands, the feeling of them wrapped around her wrists taking over all her thoughts; all she could think about when he’d laughed and said something about that being enough for today. 

She’d barely paid attention to his reassurance that Adam would be around next time to train her, rubbing her wrists, trying to work that _feeling_ out from under her skin, whatever it was. It dug in like a thorn, and she’d missed the way he’d gone silent. Contemplative. Watchful.

Nate sees a lot, much more than he lets on, and he says even less until the time is right.

She’s never had that before, someone who watches, who _sees_ under the thin veneer of bravado she wears and doesn’t press or push or shoulder their way in, demanding to know something that isn’t theirs to know. Nate waits, letting her come to him in her own time, nudging gently only when necessary. And so she trusts. She listens, and talks in turn. He knows it’s her heart in his hands, and he holds it with care.

So when he’d asked her, later, if _that_ was something she enjoyed, she’d answered honestly. Blushing dark, but honest.

“I... don’t know.”

“There are…” he’d started, then gone quiet, a slight furrow on his brow as he’d turned the words over in his mind, trying to phrase them correctly. She had wondered then if he was a bit nervous too, and it had eased some of the embarrassment. “If you wish, there are things we could— ahem, we could try. If it is something you want.” 

It wasn’t a request, or a demand, or even a question, really. It was an offer, pressed into her palm to do with as she pleased, and part of her considered it might be more for her benefit than his. He’d never seemed the _type_.

She could’ve denied him then, deny him now, and she knows he’d let it go without question. Trust. She trusts him, and it means everything. 

He stands in front of her, green ribbon in his hand (and for all its intentions, it feels romantic; Nate, stringing her up with silk that he wields as sweetly as he does his words, laying his faith in her as much as she lays her faith in him) and the pounding of her heart isn’t nerves, it’s _anticipation_. 

Nate smiles, and reaches behind her with one hand to pluck at the hooks of her bra. There’s a second of hesitation, to give her a chance to protest or pull away. She doesn’t, and he makes quick work of it, leaving her bare and open and wide-eyed, just for him. 

There’s almost nothing left between them, his gaze lingering on the healthy swell of her breasts, the gooseflesh that stutters up her skin. “Beautiful,” he murmurs, almost to himself, looking without shame, a gentle kind of reverence. She straightens up under his attention, everything in her tight and hot and shivering.

Finally, Nate meets her eyes, and that tightness unfurls, spreads through her like fire. “Give me your hands, darling.” 

She complies instantly, wrists pressed together, palms up. Held out in front of him like an offering. And he takes them with such care, drawing them first to his mouth to leave a kiss to her open palm, one then the other. Trails his lips down the bend of one of her wrists, and watches her all the while, and it takes a moment for her to realize the pain in her lungs is a need for air.

“Interlock your fingers for me.” And she does, hands held like a prayer (and isn’t _that_ something? Prayers and alters and worship. It would be so easy to sink to her knees in front of him, take him in her mouth and make him speak in tongues, and maybe he’ll let her do that, let her—)

At the touch of silk, she shudders, exhaling shakily as Nate keeps his eyes trained on her face, waiting for a sign of discomfort or unease as he winds the ribbon around her wrists, and all she can do is wonder how she looks to him. Flushed. Wanting. Open, just for him. 

She licks her lips, and his eyes follow. She does it again, sinking her teeth in.

Nate makes a low, soft sound, perhaps not even realizing it, and arousal pools in her stomach, pulling a cord of wanting in her taut enough to make her thighs squeeze together, already damp, desperate for some relief for the building heat; he smirks a little as he ties all that pretty ribbon into a knot that’s complicated in its simplicity, and she knows he _knows_.

Without thinking, she tests her luck, pushing her wrists apart. There’s some slack to the tie, enough that it doesn’t bite into her skin or dig when she pulls, and gives her some mobility to turn her hands. If she really wanted to get out of it, she could. 

Nate watches her carefully, his head tilted to the side, and the _look_ in his eye is liquid heat, dark as the earth—her chest swells up, and the air feels so thin under the weight of him.

(It isn’t really about the _restraint_ itself, it’s about the idea of it. Her, in his hands. Her, splayed out before him, willingly relenting to the safety of his arms.)

“Is it too tight?” He asks, mindful of her even now.

“No.” She whispers, settling her bound wrists in her lap, and Nate nods.

“Good.” And then he ducks down, clasps underneath her thighs, and the world gets high. She yelps, fumbling for purchase, working her fingers into the collar of his shirt _—and why is he still dressed, fuck—_ while Nate chuckles.

“I have you, don’t worry.” He kneels on the bed, his grip on her clenching and unclenching as he takes them both further up, and in the next moment laying her down atop the pillows. When he tries to pull away, she clutches his collar a little tighter, keeping him near.

“I know you do.” The words are quiet, genuine as a confession, and Nate smiles at her like it means everything, like she means everything.

And what can she do, besides let herself get swept up in it, that feeling? He’s all warmth and old world romance and goodness, so good she doesn’t know what to do with him except say, “I love you,” and tremble. 

With one arm supporting his weight, he caresses her cheek with his free hand, tracing the lines of her nose, her lips with his thumb. “And I you.” Nate whispers, leaning down to kiss her, and _oh—_

Worship is the least of what she can give him, when he pours sunlight into her mouth. Kisses her like a man that could spend forever here, tracing the curve of her lip with his tongue, wrapping her hair around his fingers. His knee presses to her center and she _gasps,_ arches, and he wastes no time slipping his tongue between her lips to stroke her own.

It’s the kind of kiss you could get drunk on, heady and _full_ and all consuming, and it isn’t until her lungs are begging for air that she pulls away, panting hard. 

She’d like to think he’s just as overwhelmed, overwrought, tilting his forehead to hers and breathing just as fast. Their noses nudge together, and he gives her a sweet, almost chaste kiss to the corner of her mouth, pulling away before she can return it fully.

He leans back, pushing himself into a kneeling position above her—still fully clothed, sleeves rucked up to his elbows as he settles down, and she fights back the urge to squirm, covering her chest with her arms.

And for a moment, all he does is watch. Slow. Always slow. Watches until she’s on the verge of _something_ , and then—

“Keep your eyes on me.” He murmurs again, and presses her bound arms to the pillows behind her, arched over her head—leaving her splayed, fully on display. She grasps the headboard automatically, and he offers her another pleased smile. “And keep your hands there. Do you understand?”

He’s waiting for her reply, and all Winona can work up is a stumbling nod, inhaling sharply through her nose, trying to regain some semblance of control over her breathing.

“Answer me, please.”

_God._

It shouldn’t be that _good_ . _Please. Thank you._ Commands wrapped in manners, wrapped in silk, and her mouth is dry as she rasps out: “I understand.”

Nate smirks, running his fingers down her cheek, cupping her jaw. “Good girl.” He says, and she bites back a whine. 

He touches her calves, first. Draws them to his hips and massages the muscle there, then trails up, over the bend of her knee. He strokes the inside of her thighs, parting them like the pages of the books he so adores, and she writhes in his grasp. 

He moves back, and she doesn’t have time to miss the contact before he’s leaning to the set of her thighs, hands clenching and unclenching on her hips.

The sight of him, head bowed between her legs, looking up at her with wanton desire, and _please, please—_

Nate leaves his imprint on the landscape of her skin. His tongue and his teeth leave wet, bruisy marks on the trembling want of her thighs, something only he will get to see, to enjoy, and when he nips at her skin she startles, gasps. 

He folds one long, strong arm over her abdomen, keeping her still. “Nate—”

“You look so lovely like this.” He murmurs, a slip of his smile all she can catch before he slides his lips against her skin again, further away from where she wants him; teasing butterfly kisses to the bow of her hip, soft as the ribbons adorning her wrists. “Green suits you.”

She groans, digging her fingers into the wood of the headboard. He knows _exactly_ what he’s doing, and she just wishes he’d stop _teasing_ —

“Nate, come on. _Please._ ”

“Yes?” he prompts, grinning up at her.

Winona presses her lips together, wearing what she hopes is her worst glare—not that it means much, when she’s the one naked and quaking in his grasp—and he chuckles, his expression smugly patient.

“You know what I want.” She snaps, flushing hot, all _wanting_ and hazy anger. His smugness fades into a kind of gentle warmth, imploring and sweet, and she wishes he wouldn’t do that, make it impossible for her to be anything but desperately in love with him.

“But I want to hear you say it, my love.” Another kiss. One hand kneads where her thighs meet her hips, the other drifting between her legs, and she sighs. “Can you do that for me?”

“I—...” his thumb brushes over her clothed center, and Winona inhales sharply, her hands halfway over her head before she remembers herself, grasping the headboard again. “Nate…” she groans, eyes sliding shut. The pressure is gone as soon as it comes, and she groans, only just holding back from knocking her head against the wall.

She blushes hot, even as she scowls, sinks her hands into her own hair to keep them there. Desperate. Pleading. Demanding.

“I want…” the words lodge in her throat, pride catching on the ends of them, and he waits. “I want you to...” she breathes, “to touch me.”

“I am touching you.” The hand at her hip loosens, sliding over her torso with splayed fingers. He brushes the underside of her breast, teasing, taunting. “Do you want me to touch you here?” His thumb strokes lightly, the sensitive skin of her nipple stiffening under the slight attention. 

“Here?” He moves up, kisses her lower stomach, trailing up to the valley between her breasts— but not _quite,_ and he settles back again as she pushes forward, grinning. 

“Or would you prefer my mouth?”

 _His mouth._ She chokes, desperate for some kind of relief. He leaves another kiss to her trembling stomach as she rolls her hips against the bed, her scalp stinging from the pull of her own fists. 

The wet heat of his mouth on her breast, his tongue running over her nipple. Attentive, soft, her other given attention with a light pinch of his fingers. He switches, then, the air cold and stinging in the places his mouth has been, and she keens.

“Goddamn it, Nate…” 

“Yes, beloved?” He hums, ignoring—or perhaps enjoying—her curse.

“I want… _ugh_ — _Nate._ ” _I want. I want. I want._ That’s what this is all about, isn’t it? Seeing how long it’ll take for her pride to relent, the last thing she hasn’t surrendered to him.

He lays on her, looking up at her so sweetly, and she clenches her jaw.

They both know his patience will outlast hers. 

His finger returns, a soft pressure on the soaked fabric of her underwear, never quite giving in, pushing them to the side the way she wishes he would, and she groans, arching up. He waits, pulls away. Smiles above her. Implores. 

She wishes he would just—

“Fuck— _fine,”_ she tightens her grip on her hair, squeezing her eyes shut, and he gives a firmer stroke against her core. _Fuck._ Eyes on me, she knows, and she catches a slip of his composure as she opens them again—Nate, sinking his teeth into his lip, snaring back a groan as his other hand curls over the band of her underwear.

“I want your mouth. On me. Please. I want you to—” she begs, rocking against him. “Please, Nate—”

“Good girl,” he murmurs, tugging that last scrap of clothing off her arching hips, his hands burning a path down her legs as he does—and thank god, thank god he forgets to take his time with it, tossing the black lace to some unseen corner. Parts her legs and leans in, down, where she’s practically dripping for him, all warm breath and anticipation. Winona shivers, anchoring herself to the headboard once again.

The first touch of his tongue, hot and slick and everything, _everything,_ sends a cord of heat through her. Starts gently, as he always does. Winona exhales, shaky with relief, squeezing her bound fists as he licks her slow, _so slow._

It takes all of her will to not sink both hands into his hair and, _fuck_ , his tongue circles her clit, pulls away just when she needs it most, when she’s so close it hurts. “ _Nate_ ,” she tugs on the headboard, grinding on his mouth as much as he’ll allow, and Nate moans, a low, heavy noise that sends shockwaves up her spine. 

He straddles her waist with his arm and stokes that fire _up, up,_ _up,_ but not quite enough to topple her over the edge.

She might be begging, cursing, as Nate picks up speed again. He sucks her clit and _god, there, there_ she sobs. It’s all she can do to hold the headboard for dear life as he keeps that pace, taking her higher and higher. Nate’s heavy weight across her stomach is the only thing stopping her from arching off the bed completely, her restraint gone, burned away under his attention.

Nate draws his other hand to her leg, pushing the vice-grip of her thigh away just enough to slide one finger into her, already slick and open for him, easing his tongue off her clit to draw light circles around it.

She shudders, gasps. The bed groans as she pulls, and _right there, please._

He is a fire and she is burning, following each thrust greedily. He eases another finger into her center, his wrist rocking back and forth languidly, a pace that’ll drive her to that madness he wants so much. Each unhurried drag of his fingers strokes a place in her that makes her see stars.

“You’re doing so well,” he praises, peppering wet kisses to her thighs. “So well, my love.” 

He thrusts into her hard, a sudden change in course that makes her arch. Again. Again. A strangled sound tears from her throat as he murmurs sweet nothings against her skin, and she’s barely holding on—

The searing heat of his tongue slides against her clit, sucking it between his lips, and that’s all it takes for her to shatter in his arms.

When she comes to, Nate’s looking up at her, letting her ride out the aftershocks on his hand, and the sight of him nearly undoes her again right there. It’s almost obscene; his fingers buried in her, mouth slick with arousal, hair askew. His eyes heavy with a desire so dark and strong it should frighten her. 

His tongue darts out, cleaning his lips of her. “Beautiful,” he sighs, and Winona slumps, boneless as he crawls over her body, one hand still between her legs. He pulls out of her with a slow, delicious drag that makes her jerk, rocking into his palm when he cups her, almost possessively.

He’s close enough that she can lean up to chase his mouth, a silent request he obliges happily. Kisses her slow and deep, tasting of her, and she moans, raising her arms to settle over his shoulder.

Blissfully, he allows it. Allows her to catch him in the loop of her bound arms and stay, keeping her near as she pulls on his bottom lip, making him groan. It’s an awkward angle, but she manages to catch the cloth of his shirt. 

“Will you take this off please?” She rasps against his lips, and Nate chuckles.

“I suppose, since you asked so nicely…” he waits for her to let him go, and then rolls back onto his knees, still so tall, even now. Her hands settle in the valley between her breasts, clasped together. 

Of course he makes a show of it. Wearing a wide smirk, he takes his time prying it off. Soft, warm brown skin and toned lines come into view, and she sinks in the pillows, breathing hard as she drinks in the sight of him.

And he lets her, content to let her watch him as he watches her. One quick turn of his wrist, and he tosses aside the shirt, giving her an unimpeded view of his chest, that trail of dark hair leading down, down, and she wants so badly to run her hands over him, follow that trail and taste his skin and leave him shaking.

“Anything else?” He murmurs, smiling when her gaze snaps to his face.

“Pants. Please.”

He acquiesces, his long fingers trailing the waist band, thumbing the cinch of it, not yet tugging them loose. It draws attention to the hard line of his erection, clear through the fabric of his trousers. She swallows hard, a fresh wave of desire sluicing up her veins. “And what then?” 

Winona exhales, squeezing her hands together till it hurts. “You.” He flicks the top button open, standing up quickly to drag them off the rest of the way, and she writhes. “You inside me. _Fuck._ Fuck me—”

“Fuck you?” He hums, cutting off her babbling, and that _word._ It sounds lovely and _vulgar_ in his pretty mouth, and it feels like a fatal error when he’s finally, _finally_ naked and beautiful and _hard_ and catching her ankles in his strong hands, yanking her forward as gently as he can. “I could do that.” _I could do that, but I won’t,_ his strained smile says, and she shudders as he kneels on the bed, spreading her legs. “Or I could make love to you.”

“I could spend hours taking you apart, worshipping every inch of your body.” She whines, responds automatically, hitching her knees to the set of his hips, curving her calves behind him. Not _quite_ there, but close enough, and the feeling of _skin on skin_ leaves her breathless, aching. He’s so warm. So warm as he takes her in his hands, running them up and down the length of her thighs. “I have waited so long for you, my love. I can wait a little longer.”

But she can’t, she _can’t,_ reaching for him and canting her hips, and his fingertips dig in to slow her movement. “Please. Please—”

He catches her grasping hands loosely between his own, drawing her arms straight, then pushing them back, back toward the bed. It brings him close enough that his hips knock into hers, his length pressing up against her, and it shocks a noise from him.

She pushes up, locking her legs tighter around his hips, and _there—_ she grinds against him, an easy slide when she’s already _soaked,_ and he stumbles forward, catching his weight on his free hand, the other still gripping her flexing wrists—she’s aching, aching to touch him.

“Winona,” her name, a guttural drag, rough on his eloquent tongue, and it’s a thrill, watching him slip and crack like that.

“Mhmm?” 

“You are—” his smooth features crush as she moves again, a slow _drag_ of wet heat on his cock, and he jolts against her, making them both gasp. She does it again, and he grasps her hip hard, meeting her halfway and, _fuck, there. There._ A slew of words stumble from his mouth, shaky on the vowels, not one of them in a language she speaks. 

“ _Nate,_ ” she keens, and his lips crash into hers, devouring and wild and everything, _everything._ He drops his lips to her chest, scattering wet, open-mouthed kisses to her collarbone, the swell of her breasts. He grinds into her and it makes her head swim, her words slur. “Let me— please, let me— _fuck,_ ” her hands flex, chafing on silk, “let me touch you, _please_ , I’ll be good, I want you so—”

He doesn’t even need to look up. One quick tug, and the knot comes loose, and she’s running her hands everywhere. One sinking in all his soft, dark hair, the other running over his back, his chest, everything she can reach. She tugs lightly, and he groans, arching his head hack into her beckoning grasp.

His hand slips between them, hesitating even as shudders wrack them both. “Do you—”

“Yes. _Yes._ ” over and over. Shaking. Wanting. On the verge of madness. 

And that’s all he needs. He pushes into her, a delirious stretch, already so _full_. All hungry shakes and curving bodies and his skin, so hot on hers, their cheeks pressed together. Nate takes one of her hands in his and interlocks their fingers; a lattice between them, her and him and nothing else. Nate, his voice a low ache as he murmurs in languages she’s never heard before. 

He’s always so _slow_ at first, taking his time the same way he takes her mouth, muffling her moans with his lips, his tongue until he finally, _finally_ hilts inside her.

She’s dizzy, swimming in heat and the scent of his skin, every nerve in her body on fire and all she knows is she loves him, swears she can feel his heart and hers beating to the same rhythm. 

It’s all she can do to squeeze his hand and _hold on_ as he drags each thrust almost all the way out, sliding back just as _slow,_ and she bucks her hips up. A panging urge, begging him to just go a little _faster, please,_ grasping at something just out of reach. She clenches tight around him, and whatever poetry he’s murmuring stutters, taken by a low moan.

 _I love you I love you I love you_ , she doesn’t know if she says it or he does, but then he’s speeding up, higher and higher as he lets go of her hand to sink it between them, thumbing at her clit, and— 

She falls, a sob tearing from her as the world shatters and comes back together. He just keeps _fucking_ her through it, chasing the cliff’s edge. She wraps both arms around his head, the world falling out of focus as she kisses him, swallowing his words, his moans.

His hips stutter, body shaking, and she pulls back in time to watch him come apart in her arms, so fucking _gorgeous—_ his mouth falling open, eyes screwed shut, head thrown back, and then he’s spilling inside of her, liquid heat, and she squeezes him through it.

She pulls him close, wanting the weight of him on her, in her, and he lets himself go, collapsing in her arms, face buried in the curve of her shoulder. He pants, and she breathes to match every rise and fall of his breath with her own, undulating gently against him. 

(And the truth is, Winona loves this best. Nate, a gasping mess above her, undone and vulnerable and _hers_ , hers to run her hands over, to love and touch and carry through the aftermath of his climax, still riding the high of her own.)

It could be minutes or hours before he finally lifts his head—taking a moment to kiss her shoulder, her collarbone—his mouth curved, looking nothing short of satiated.

“Hello.” He hums, trying to rise up on his elbows before she pushes him back down, making him laugh softly. She laughs in turn, warm and satisfied. 

A grin catches on her lips, wrapping one of her hands around the slant of his jaw. He leans into the touch, eyes softening into something warm, beloved. “Hi there.”

They stay like that for a moment, lazy, light kisses followed by interims of Nate, his face in her shoulder, his forehead against hers. Safety. Warmth. And in the low, filmy light, all she can think is that there is nothing she wouldn’t do for him, nothing at all.

**Author's Note:**

> hmu on tumblr to hear me scream about emotional support vampires @dumortainava


End file.
